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.5 semi-monthly Number 63 



September 5, 1894 




L REVERE'S RIDE 

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SOje Kfoersfae literature Series 



PAUL REVERE'S RIDE 



AND OTHER POEMS 



BY 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



M 



WITH EXPLANATORY NOTES 




V 



37 c 






HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

Boston : 4 Park Street ; New York : 11 Ea3t Seventeenth Street 
Chicago : 28 Lakeside Building 






L^ 
s 



Copyright, 1863, 1867, 1872, 1874, 1875, 1873, 1880, and 1882, 
By HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 

Copyright, 1891, 
By ERNEST W. LONGFELLOW. 

Copyright, 18!M, 
By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 

All rights reserved. 



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- 3fo I 



The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. 
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton and Company. 



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CONTENTS. 



Paul Revere' s Ride 

The Bridge 

The Cumberland . 

Christmah Bells 

Killed at the Ford 

It is not always May 

Rain in Summer 

My Lost Youth 

Changed ..... 

The Happiest Land . 

The Emperor's Bird's-Nest 

The Old Clock on the Stairs 

Song of the Bell 

Lady Wentworth 

Mad River .... 

The Builders 

Annie of Thabaw . 

The Bell of Atri . 

The Brook and the Wave; . 

The Return of Spring . 

The Beleaguered City 

Gaspar Becerra 

To the River Charles 
-Three Friends of Mine . 

Charles Sumner . 

Oliver Basselin 

Nuremberg . . .' 
-The Bells of San Bias . 

The Golden Mile-Stone 

The Birds of Killingworth 

The Herons of Elmwood . 

Bayard Taylor 

Travels #y the Fireside 
' A Ballad of the French Fleet 

King Christian . 



PAGE 

. 6 

8^ 
. 10 

11 
. 13 

14 
. IT 

21 
. 21 

23 

27 
. 28 

35 
. 37 

38 
. 40 

44 
. 44 

45 
. 47 

48 
. 50 

52 
. 54 

56 
. 59 

61 
. 63 

72 
. 73 

75 
. 77 

79 



iv CONTENTS. 

A Gleam of Sunshine 80 

The Arsenal at Springfield 83 

The Ladder of St. Augustine 85 

Hawthorne 87 

The Warden of the Cinque Ports 88 

The Legend of this Crossbill .... .90 

Aftermath 91 



PAUL REVERE'S RIDE, AND OTHER 

POEMS. 



PAUL REVERE'S RIDE, 1 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear 

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five ;' 

Hardly a man is now alive 

Who remembers that famous day and year. 

He said to his friend* " If the British march 

By land or sea from the town to-night, 

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 

Of the North Church ' l tower as a signal light, — 

1 JVlr. Longfellow imagined a party of friends met at a coun- 
try inn, and telling tales before the lire. The first of these 
Tales of a Wayside Inn was by the landlord, and is this story of 
Paul Kevere. Bevere was an American patriot, a silversmith 
and engraver by trade, whose tea-pots and cream jugs and tank- 
ards may be found in. old Boston families. He was a spirited 
man, and in the secrets of the Boston patriots. 

2 There has been some discussion as to the church tower from 
which the lanterns were hung, some claiming that the church 
was the old North Meeting-house in North Square, pulled down 
afterward for fuel, during the siege of Boston ; but the evidence 
points more clearly to Christ Church, still standing, and often 
spoken of as the North Church. The poet has departed some- 
what from the actual historic facts, since Revere did not watch 



2 PAUL REVERE 'S RIDE. 

One, if by land, and two, if by sea ; 
And I on the opposite shore will be, 
Beady to ride and spread the alarm 
Through every Middlesex village and farm, 
For the country folk to be up and to arm. 

Then he said, " Good night ! ' and with muffled or 

Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, 

Just as the moon rose over the bay. 

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 

The Somerset, British man-of-war ; 

A phantom ship, with each m.ist and spar 

Across the moon like a prison bar, 

And a huge black hulk, that was magnified 

By its own reflection in the tide. 

Meanwhile his friend, through alley and - t, 
Wanders and watches with eager ears, 
Till in the silence around him he h< i 
The muster of men at the barrack door, 
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 
And the measured tread of the grenadiers, 
Marching down to their boats on tin* shoi 

Then be climbed the tower of the ( rth ( 

By the wooden stairs, with stealth} 

To the belfry-chamber overhead, 

And startled the pigeons from their perch 

On the sombre rafters, that round him made 

Masses and moving shapes of shade. — 

for the 1 nor did he reach CoDCOl In 

was made a holiday in W 
Patriots' Day, there was an attempt at ;is 

story of the ride. 



PAUL REVERE 'S RIDE. 

By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, 
To the highest window in the wall, 
Where he paused to listen and look down 
A mpment on the roofs of the town, 
And the moonlight flowing over all. 

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, 

In their night-encampment on the hill, 

Wrapped in silence so deep and still 

That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, 

The watchful night-wind, as it went 

Creeping along from tent to tent, 

And seeming to whisper, " All is well ! " 

A moment only he feels the spell 

Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread 

Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; 

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 

On a shadowy something far away, 

Where the river widens to meet the bay, — 

A line of black that bends and floats 

On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, 
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride 
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. 
Now he patted his horse's side, 
Now gazed at the landscape far and near, 
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, 
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth ; 
But mostly he watched with eager search 
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, 
As it rose above the graves on the hill, 
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. 
And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height 



4 PAUL REVERE 'S RIDE. 

A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! 
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, 
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, 

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, i spark 

Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet : 

That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and the 

light, 
The fate of a nation was riding that night ; 
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, 
Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 

He has left the village and mounted the steep, 
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, 
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides ; 
And under the alders that skirt its edge, 
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, 
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. 



It was twelve by the village clock. 

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. 

He heard the crowing of the cock. 

And the barking of the farmer's dog, 

And felt the damp of the river fog, 

That rises after the sun goes down. 

It was one by the village clock, 

When he galloped into Lexington. 

He saw the gilded weathercock 

Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 

And the meeting-house windows, blank and h:\ 



PAUL REV ERE' S RIDE. 

Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 

As if they already stood aghast 

At the bloody work they would look upon. 

It was two by the village clock, 

When he came to the bridge in Concord town. 

He heard the bleating of the flock, 

And the twitter of birds among the trees, 

And felt the breath of the morning breeze 

Blowing over the meadows brown. 

And one was safe and asleep in his bed 

Who at the bridge would be first to fall, 

Who that day would be lying dead, 

Pierced by a British musket-ball. 

You know the rest. In the books you have read, 
How the British Regulars fired and fled, — 
How the farmers gave jthem ball for ball, 
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, 
Chasing the red-coat^ down the lane, 
Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
And only pausing to fire and load. 

So through the night rode Paul Revere ; 

And so through the night went his cry of alarm 

To every Middlesex village and farm, — 

A cry of defiance and not of fear, 

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, 

And a word that shall echo forevermore ! 

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 

Through ail our history, to the last, 

In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 

The people will waken and listen to hear 



f 



THE BRIDGE. 

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed. 
And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 



THE BRIDGE. 1 



I stood on the bridge at midnight, 

Afl the docks W triking the hour. 

And the moon rose o'er the city. 
Behind the dark church-tower. 

I saw her bright reflection 

Iii the w i under m 
Like a gold oblet falling 

And sinking into the sea. 

And far in the hazy distant 

Of that lovelv night in June, 
The \ of the flaming furn;< 

Gleamed redder thai >n. 



Among the 1 black i 

The wavering shad 
And the current that came from the in 

Seemed to lift and bear them av 

As, BW( ig and eddying throi m, 

R belated 

And, streaming into the moonlight, 

The ide. 

1 The poem when published H I Th I "ige 

r the the river \ i^e fr- 

a. 



THE BRIDGE. 

And like those waters rushing 

Among the wooden piers, 
A flood of thoughts came o'er me 

That filled my eyes with tears. 

How often, oh how often, 

In the days that had gone by, 

I had stood on that bridge at midnight 
And gazed on that wave and sky ! 

How often, oh how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 
Would bear me away on its bosom 

O'er the ocean wild and wide ! 

For my heart was hot and restless, 
And-my life was full of care, 

And the burden laid upon me 

Seemed greater than I could bear. 



&■ 



But now it has fallen from me, 

It is buried in the sea ; 
And only the sorrow of others 

Throws its shadow over me. 

Yet whenever I cross the river 
On its bridge with wooden piers, 

Like the odor of brine from the ocean 
Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 

Of care-encumbered men, 
Each bearing his burden of sorrow, 

Have crossed the bridge since then. 



THE CUMBERLAND. 

I see the long procession 

Still passing to and fro, 
The young heart hot and restless, 

And the old subdued and slow ! 

And forever and forever, 
As long as the river flows, 

As long as the heart has passions, 
As long as life has woes ; 

The moon and its broken reflection 
And its shadows shall appear, 

As the symbol of love in heaven, 
And its wavering image here. 



THE CUMBERLAND. 

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 

On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war ; 
And at times from the fortress across the bay 
The alarum of drums swept past, 
Or a bugle blast 
From the camp on the shore. 

Then far away to the south uprose 

A little feather of snow-white smoke, 
And we knew that the iron ship l of our foes 

1 The iron ship was the United States Frigate Merrimac cap- 
tured by the Confederates, plated with railroad iron, and renamed 
the Virginia, which on March 8, 18G2, came ont of Gosport to 
attack the Union vessels in Hampton Roads. The next day the 
Monitor ironclad came upon the BCene, and the two ironclads en- 
gaged each other. The whole character of naval warfare WM 
changed from that day. 



THE CUMBERLAND. 9 

Was steadily steering its course 
To try the force 
Of our ribs of oak. 

Down upon us heavily runs, 

Silent and sullen, the floating fort ; 
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, 
And leaps the terrible death, 
With fiery breath, 
From each open port. 

We are not idle, but send her straight 

Defiance back in a full broadside ! 
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, 
Rebounds our heavier hail 
From each iron scale 
Of the monster's hide. 

" Strike your flag ! " the rebel cries, 

In his arrogant old plantation strain. 
" Never ! " our gallant Morris replies ; 
" It is better to sink than to yield ! * 
And the whole air pealed 
With the cheers of our men. 

Then, like a kraken huge and black, 

She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! 
Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, 
With a sudden shudder of death, 
And the cannon's breath 
For her dying gasp. 

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, 
Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. 



\ 



10 CHRISTMAS BELLS. 

Lord, how beautiful was Thy day ! 
Every waft of the air 
Was a whisper of prayer, 
Or a dirge for the dead. 

Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the seas ! 

Ye are at peace in the troubled stream ; 
Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these, 
Thy flag, that is rent in twain, 
Shall be one again, 
And without a seam ! 



CHRISTMAS BELLS. 

I iikard the bells on Christmas Day 

Their old, familiar carols play, 

And wild and sweet 

The words repeat 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

And thought how, as the day had come, 
The belfries of all Christendom 

I lad rolled along 
The unbroken song 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

Till, ringing, singing on its way, 
The world revolved from night to day, 
A voice, a chime, 

A chant sublime 

Of peace on earth, good-will to men I 



KILLED AT THE FORD. 11 

Then from each black, accursed mouth 
The cannon thundered in the South, 1 

And with the sound 

The carols drowned 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

It was as if an earthquake rent 
The hearth-stones of a continent, 

And made forlorn 

The households born 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

And in despair I bowed my head ; 
" There is no peace on earth," I said ; 

" For hate is strong, 

And mocks the song 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! " 

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep : 
" God is not dead ; nor doth he sleep ! 

The Wrong shall fail, 

The Right prevail, 
With peace on earth, good- will to men ! " 



KILLED AT THE FORD. 

He is dead, the beautiful youth, 

The heart of honor, the tongue of truth, 

He, the life and light of us all, 

Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call, 

Whom all eyes followed with one consent, 

The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word, 

Hushed all murmurs of discontent. 

1 The date of the poem explains this reference. 



12 KILLED AT THE FORD. 

Only last night, as we rode along, 

Down the dark of the mountain gap, 

To visit the picket-guard at the ford, 

Little dreaming of any mishap, 

He was humming the words of some old song : 

" Two red roses he had on his cap 

And another he bore at the point of his sword." 

Sudden and swift a whistling ball 

Came out of a wood, and the voice was still ; . 

Something I heard in the darkness fall, 

And for a moment my blood grew chill ; 

I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks 

In a room where some one is lying dead ; 

But he made no answer to what I said. 

We lifted him up to his saddle again, 

And through the mire and the mist and the rain 

Carried him back to the silent camp, 

And laid him as if asleep on his bed ; 

And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lamp 

Two white roses upon his cheeks, 

And one, just over his heart, blood-red ! 

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet 

That fatal bullet went speeding forth, 

Till it reached a town in the distant North, 

Till it reached a house in a sunny street, 

Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat 

Without a murmur, without a cry ; 

And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town, 

For one who had passed from cross to crown, 

And the neighbors wondered that she should die. 



IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 13 

IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 

No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano. 1 

Spanish Proverb. 

The sun is bright, — the air is clear, 
The darting swallows soar and sing, 

And from the stately elms I hear 
The bluebird prophesying Spring. 

So blue yon winding river flows, 
It seems an outlet from the sky, 

Where, waiting till the west wind blows, 
The freighted clouds at anchor lie. 

All things are new ; — the buds, the leaves, 
That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest, 

And even the nest beneath the eaves ; — 
There are no birds in last year's nest ! 

All things rejoice in youth and love, 
The fulness of their first delight ! 

And learn from the soft heavens above 
The melting tenderness of night. 

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, 
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ; 

Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, 
For oh, it is not always May ! 

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, 
To some good angel leave the rest ; 

1 The translation of this Spanish proverb will be found in the 
last line of the poem. 



14 RAIN IN SUMMER. 

For Time will teach thee soon the truth, 
There are no birds in last year's nest! 



KAIN IN SUMMER. 

How beautiful is the rain ! 

After the dust and heat, 

In the broad and fiery street, 

In the narrow lane, 

How beautiful is the rain ! 

How it clatters along the roofs, 

Like the tramp of hoofs ! 

How it gushes and struggles out 

From the throat of the overflowing spout ! 

Across the window-pane 

It pours and pours ; 

And swift and wide, 

With a muddy tide, 

Like a river down the gutter roars 

The rain, the welcome rain ! 

The sick man from his chamber looks 

At the twisted brooks ; 

He can feel the cool 

Breath of each little pool ; 

His fevered brain 

Grows calm again, 

And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 

From the neighboring school 
Come the boys, 



RAIN IN SUMMER. 15 

With more than their wonted noise 

And commotion ; 

And down the wet streets 

Sail their mimic fleets, 

Till the treacherous pool 

Ingulfs them in its whirling 

And turbulent ocean. 

In the country, on every side, 

Where far and wide, 

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, 

Stretches the plain, 

To the dry grass and the drier grain 

How welcome is the rain ! 

In the furrowed land 

The toilsome and patient oxen stand ; 

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, 

With their dilated nostrils spread, 

They silently inhale 

The clover-scented gale, 

And the vapors that arise 

From the well-watered and smoking soil. 

For this rest in the furrow after toil 

Their large and lustrous eyes 

Seem to thank the Lord, 

More than man's spoken word. 

Near at hand, 

From under the sheltering trees, 

The farmer sees 

His pastures, and his fields of grain, 

As they bend their tops 

To the numberless beating drops 



16 RAIN IN SUMMER. 

Of the incessant rain. 

He counts it as no sin 

That he sees therein 

Only his own thrift and gain. 

These, and far more than these, 

The Poet sees ! 

He can behold 

Aquarius old 

Walking the fenceless fields of air ; 

And from each ample fold 

Of the clouds about him rolled 

Scattering everywhere 

The showery rain, 

As the farmer scatters his grain. 

He can behold 

Things manifold 

That have not yet been wholly told, — 

Have not been wholly sung nor said. 

For his thought, that never stops, 

Follows the water-drops 

Down to the graves of the dead, 

Down through chasms and gulfs profound, 

To the dreary fountain-head 

Of lakes and rivers under ground ; 

And sees them, when the rain is done, 

On the bridge of colors seven 

Climbing up once more to heaven, 

Opposite the setting sun. 

Thus the Seer, 

With vision clear, 

Sees forms appear and disappear, 



MY LOST YOUTH. 17 

In the perpetual round of strange, 

Mysterious change 

From birth to death, from death to birth, 

From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth ; 

Till glimpses more sublime 

Of things unseen before, 

Unto his wondering eyes reveal 

The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel 

Turning forevermore 

In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 



MY LOST YOUTH. 

Often I think of the beautiful town 

That is seated by the sea ; 1 
Often in thought go up and down 
The pleasant streets of that dear old town, 
And my youth comes back to me. 
And a verse of a Lapland song 
Is haunting my memory still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

1 During one of his visits to Portland in 1846, Mr. Long- 
fellow relates how he took a long walk round Munjoy's hill and 
down to the old Fort Lawrence. " I lay down," he says, " in one 
of the embrasures and listened to the lashing, lulling sound of 
the sea just at my feet. It was a beautiful afternoon, and the 
harbor was full of white sails, coming and departing. Meditated 
a poem on the Old Fort." It does not appear that any poem 
was then written, but the theme remained, and in 1855, when in 
Cambridge, he notes in his diary, March 29 : "A day of pain ; 
cowering over the fire. At night, as I lie in bed, a poem comes 
into my mind, — a memory of Portland, - — my native town, the 
city by the sea." 



18 MY LOST YOUTH. 

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, 

And catch, in sudden gleams, 
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, 
And islands that were the Hesperides 
Of all my boyish dreams. 

And the burden of that old song, 
It murmurs and whispers still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I remember the black wharves and the slips, 

And the sea-tides tossing free ; 
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, 
And the beauty and mystery of the ships, 
And the magic of the sea. 

And the voice of that wayward song 
Is singing and saying still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I remember the bulwarks by the shore, 

And the fort upon the hill ; 
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, 
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, 
And the bugle wild and shrill. 
And the music of that old son<r 
Throbs in my memory still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I remember the sea-fight 1 far away, 
How it thundered o'er the tide ! 

1 In 1813, when Longfellow was a boy of six, there WM an 
engagement off the harbor of Portland between the American 



MY LOST YOUTH. 19 

And the dead captains, as they lay 
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay 
Where they in battle died. 

And the sound of that mournful song 

Goes through me with a thrill : 

" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I can see the breezy dome of groves, 
The shadows of Deering's Woods ; 
And the friendships old and the early loves 
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves 
In quiet neighborhoods. 

And the verse of that sweet old song, 
It flutters and murmurs still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart 

Across the school-boy's brain ; 
The song and the silence in the heart, 
That in part are prophecies, and in part 
Are longings wild and vain. 

And the voice of that fitful song 
Sings on, and is never still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

There are things of which I may not speak ; 
There are dreams that cannot die ; 

brig Enterprise and the English brig Boxer. Both captains were 
slain, but the Enterprise won the day and after a fight of three 
quarters of an hour came into the harbor, bringing the Boxer 
with her. The fight could be seen from the shore. 



20 MY LOST YOUTH. 

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, 
And bring a pallor into the cheek, 
And a mist before the eye. 

And the words of that fatal song 

Come over me like a chill : 

" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

Strange to me now are the forms I meet 

When I visit the dear old town ; 
But the native air is pure and sweet, 
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, 
As they balance up and down, 
Are singing the beautiful song, 
Are sighing and whispering still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, 

And with joy that is almost pain 
My heart goes back to wander there, 
And among the dreams of the days that were, 
I find my lost youth again. 

And the strange and beautiful song, 
The groves are repeating it still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 



THE HAPPIEST LAND. 21 



CHANGED. 



From the outskirts of the town, 1 

Where of old the mile-stone stood, 
Now a stranger, looking down, 
I behold the shadowy crown 
Of the dark and haunted wood. 

Is it changed, or am I changed ? 

Ah ! the oaks are fresh and green, 
But the friends with whom I ranged 
Through their thickets are estranged 

By the years that intervene. 

Bright as ever flows the sea, 

Bright as ever shines the sun, 
But alas ! they seem to me 
Not the sun that used to be, 
Not the tides that used to run. 



THE HAPPIEST LAND. 2 

There sat one day in quiet, 

By an alehouse on the Rhine, 
Four hale and hearty fellows, 

And drank the precious wine. 

The landlord's daughter filled their cups, 

Around the rustic board ; 
Then sat they all so calm and still, 

And spake not one rude word. 

1 It was a walk in Portland, the poet's old home, which sug- 
gested this poem. 

2 Translated from the German. 



22 THE HAPPIEST LAND. 

But when the maid departed, 

A Swabian raised his hand. 
And cried, all hot and flushed with win* 

46 Long live the Swabian land ! 

" The greatest kingdom upon earth 
Cannot with that compare ; 
With all the stout and hardy men 
And the nut-brown maidens then 

" Ha ! " cried a Saxon, laughing, 

And dashed his beard with wine; 

" I had rather live in Lapland, 

Than that Swabian land of thin 

" The goodliest land on all this earth. 
It is the Saxon land ! 
There have I as many maidens 
As fingers on this hand ! 

"Hold your tongues ! both Swabian and Saxon ! ' 

A bold Bohemian cries ; 
"If there 's a heaven upon this earth. 

In Bohemia it lies. 

" There the tailor blows the flute, 

And the cobbler blows the horn, 
And the miner blows the bugle, 

Over mountain gorge and bourn." 
• •••... 
And then the landlord's daughter 

Up to heaven raised her hand. 
And said, " Ye may no more contend, 

There lies the happiest land ' 



THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S-NEST. 23 



THE EMPEROR'S BIRDS-NEST. 

Once the Emperor Charles of Spain, 
With his swarthy, grave commanders, 

I forget in what campaign, 

Long besieged, in mud and rain, 
Some old frontier town of Flanders. 

Up and down the dreary camp, 
In great boots of Spanish leather, 

Striding with a measured tramp, 

These Hidalgos, dull and damp, 

Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather. 

Thus as to and fro they went, 

Over upland and through hollow, 

Giving their impatience vent, 

Perched upon the Emperor's tent, 
In her nest, they spied a swallow. 

Yes, it was a swallow's nest, 

Built of clay and hair of horses, 
Mane, or tail, or dragon's crest, 
Found on hedge-rows east and west, 

After skirmish of the forces. 

Then an old Hildalgo said, 

As he twirled his gray mustachio, 
" Sure this swallow overhead 
Thinks the Emperor's tent a shed, 
And the Emperor but a Macho ! "* 

1 Pronounced Macho. It signifies in Spanish a mule. 



24 THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S^NEST. 

Hearing his imperial name 

Coupled with those words of malice, 

Half in anger, half in shame, 

Forth the great campaigner came 
Slowly from his canvas palace. 

" Let no hand the bird molest," 
Said he solemnly, " nor hurt her ! " 

Adding then, by way of jest, 

" Golondrina 1 is my guest, 

'T is the wife of some deserter ! " 

Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft, 

Through the camp was spread the rumor, 

And the soldiers, as they quaffed 

Flemish beer at dinner, laughed 
At the Emperor's pleasant humor. 

So unharmed and unafraid 

Sat the swallow still and brooded, 
Till the constant cannonade 
Through the walls a breach had made, 
And the siege was thus concluded. 

Then the army, elsewhere bent, 

Struck its tents as if disbanding:, 
Only not the Emperor's tent, 
For he ordered, ere he went, 

Very curtly, " Leave it standing ! " 

So it stood there all alone, 

Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, 

1 The feminine form of golondrino, a swallow, and also a 
jocose name for a deserter. 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 25 

Till the brood was. fledged and flown, 
Singing o'er those walls of stone 

Which the cannon-shot had shattered. 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 

Somewhat back from the village street 
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. 1 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw ; 
And from its station in the hall 
An ancient timepiece says to all, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

Half-way up the stairs it stands, 
And points and beckons with its hands 
From its case of massive oak, 
Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 
Crosses himself, .and sighs, alas ! 
With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

By day its voice is low and light; 

But in the silent dead of night, 

Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, 

It echoes along the vacant hall, 

Along the ceiling, along the floor, 

And seems to say, at each chamber-door, — 

1 The house thus described was that now known as the Plun- 
kett mansion in Pittsfield, once the home of Mrs. Longfellow's 
maternal grandfather. In the poet's own house in Cambridge 
there also stood a tall old clock on the stairs. 



26 THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 

" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth. 
Through days of death and days of birth. 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it lias stood, 
And as if, like God, it all things saw. 
It calmly repeats those words of awe, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

In that mansion used to he 

Free-hearted Hospitality : 

His great fires up the chimney roared ; 

The stranger feasted at his hoard : 
But, like the skeleton at the feast, 
That warning timepiece never ceased, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

There groups of merry children played, 
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed : 
O precious hours ! O golden prime, 

And affluence of love and time ! 
Even as a miser counts his gold. 
Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 

" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever! 

From that chamber, clothed in whit 

The bride came forth on her wedding night; 

There, in that silent room belov 

The dead lay in Ins shroud of snow ; 



SONG OF THE BELL. 27 

And in the hush that followed the prayer, 
Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

All are scattered now and fled, 
Some are married, some are dead ; 
And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 
" Ah ! when shall they all meet again ? " 
As in the days long since gone by, 
The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

Never here, forever there, 
Where all parting, pain, and care, 
And- death, and time shall disappear, — 
Forever there, but never here ! 
The horologe of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 



SONG OF THE BELL. 1 

Bell ! thou soundest merrily, 
When the bridal party 

To the church doth hie ! 
Bell ! thou soundest solemnly, 
When, on Sabbath morning, 

Fields deserted lie ! 

1 Translation of a Swiss poem. 



28 LADY WENTWORTH. 

Bell ! thou soundest merrily ; 
Tellest thou at evening, 

Bed-time draweth nigh ! 
Bell ! thou soundest mournfully, 
Tellest thou the bitter 

Parting hath gone by ! 

Say ! how canst thou mourn ? 
How canst thou rejoice ? 

Thou art but metal dull ! 
And yet all our sorrowings, 
And all our rejoicings. 

Thou dost feel the in all ! 

God hath wonders many, 

Which we cannot fathom. 
Placed within thy form I 
When the heart is sin kin 
Thou alone canst raise it. 
Trembling in the storm I 



LADY WENTWORTH. 1 

One hundred years ago, and something more, 
In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at her tavern door, 
Neat as a jrin, and blooming as a r<> 
Stood Mistress Stavers in 1km- furbelows, 
Just as her cuckoo-clock was striking nine. 
Above her head, resplendent on tin aign, 

1 This is another of the Tubs of a Wayside Inu. Ii is p poeti- 
cal rendering of an actual fact. 



LADY WENTWORTH. 29 

The portrait of the Earl of Halifax, 1 
In scarlet coat and periwig of flax, 
Surveyed at leisure all her varied charms, 
Her cap, her bodice, her white folded arms, 
And half resolved, though he was past his prime, 
And rather damaged by the lapse of time, 
To fall down at her feet, and to declare 
The passion that had driven him to despair. 
For from his lofty station he had seen 
Stavers, her husband, dressed in bottle-green, 
Drive his new Flying Stage-coach, four in hand, 
Down the long lane, and out into the land, 
And knew that he was far upon the way 
To Ipswich and to Boston on the Bay ! 2 

Just then the meditations of the Earl 

Were interrupted by a little girl, 

Barefooted, ragged, with neglected hair, 

Eyes full of laughter, neck and shoulders bare, 

A thin slip of a girl, like a new moon, 

Sure to be rounded into beauty soon, 

1 The inn bore the name of the Earl of Halifax. It was com- 
mon before the Revolution to name taverns after the king or some 
notable, and the Earl of Halifax was a prominent English states- 
man, who had been prime minister of George I. 

2 Once a week the Flying Stage-coach was driven by John 
Stavers, the inn-keeper, from Portsmouth to Boston. " The car- 
riage," says Mr. T. B. Aldrich in his pleasant book, An Old Town 
by the Sea, " was a two-horse curricle, wide enough to accommodate 
three passengers. The fare was thirteen shillings and sixpence 
sterling per head. The curricle was presently superseded by a 
series of fat yellow coaches, one of which — nearly a century later, 
and long after that pleasant mode of travel had fallen obsolete — 
was the cause of much mental tribulation to the writer of this 
chronicle." Readers of The Story of a Bad Boy will guess to 
what Mr. Aldrich refers. 



30 LADY WENTWORTH. 

A creature men would worship and ador. 
Though now in mean habiliments she bore 
A pail of water, dripping through the street. 
And bathing, as she went, her naked feet. 

It was a pretty picture, full of grace : — 

The slender form, the delicate, thin face ; 

The swaying motion, as she hurried bj 

The shining feet, the laughter in her e} 

That o'er her face in ripples gleamed and glanced. 

As in her pail the shifting sunbeam danced : 

And with uncommon feelings of delight 

The Earl of Halifax beheld the Bight. 

Not so Dame Stavers, for he heard her say 

These words, or thought he did, as plain as <1 i\ : 

"O Martha Hilton! Fie! how dare you 

About the town half dressed, and looking so ! ' 

At which the gypsy laughed, and straight replied 

"No matter how I look ; I yet shall ride 

In my own chariot, ma'am.' 1 And on the child 

The Earl of Halifax benignly smiled. 

As with her heavy burden she passed on. 

Looked back, then turned the corner, and was gone. 

What next, upon that memorable day, 
Arrested his attention was a gay 
And brilliant equipage, that flashed and spun. 
The silver harness glittering in the son. 
Outriders with red jackets, lithe and lank, 
Pounding the saddles as they rose and sank. 
While all alone within the chariot sal 
A portly person with three-cornered hat, 
A crimson velvet coat, head high in air. 
Gold-headed cane, and nicely powdered hair, 



LADY WENTWORTH. 31 

And diamond buckles sparkling at his knees, 
Dignified, stately, florid, much at ease. 
Onward the pageant swept, and as it passed, 
Fair Mistress Stavers courtesied low and fast; 
For this was Governor Wentworth 1 driving down 
To Little Harbor, just beyond the town, 
Where his Great House stood looking out to sea, 
A goodly place, where it was good to be. 

It was a pleasant mansion, an abode 

Near and yet hidden from the great high-road, 

Sequestered among trees, a noble pile, 

Baronial and colonial in its style, 

Gables and dormer-windows everywhere, 

And stacks of chimneys rising high in air, — 

Pandaean pipes, on which all winds that blew 

Made mournful music the whole winter through. 

Within, unwonted splendors met *the eye, 

Panels, and floors of oak, and tapestry ; 

Carved chimney-pieces, where on brazen dogs 

Revelled and roared the Christmas fires of logs ; 

Doors opening into darkness unawares, 

Mysterious passages, and flights of stairs ; 

And on the walls, in heavy gilded frames, 

The ancestral Wentworths with Old-Scripture names. 2 

Such was the mansion where the great n\an dwelt, 

A widower and childless ; and he felt 

1 Governor JBenning Wentworth of New Hampshire. His 
Great House at Little Harbor is still standing, about a mile and a 
half below Portsmouth, and at this writing (1894) is owned and 
occupied by a son-in-law of Parkman the historian. 

2 These family mementos were long ago removed, but some- 
thing of the old-time dignity remains to the house. One may 
still see in the passageway outside the old council-chamber, racks 
for the twelve muskets of the governor's guard. 



32 



LA*DY WENTWORTH. 



The loneliness, the uncongenial gloom. 
That like a presence haunted every room . 
For though not given to weakness, he could feel 
The pain of wounds, that ache because they heal. 

The years came and the years went. — n in all. 

And passed in cloud and sunshine o'er the Hall ; 

The dawns their splendor through its chambers shad, 

The sunsets flushed its western window 1 ; 

The snow was on its roofs, the wind, t tin: 

Its woodlands were in leaf and bare again ; 

Moons waxed and waned, the lilacs (doomed and died. 

In the broad river ebbed and flowed the tdd 

Ships went to sea, and ships came home Erom sea, 

And the slow years sailed by and ceased to be. 

And all these years had Martha Hilton served 

In the Great House, not wholly unobserved : 

By day, by night, the silver oresoent grei 

Though hidden by clouds, her light still shining 

through ; 
A maid of all work, whether oOttTSS or f i i n • , 
A servant who made service seem divine I ' 
Through her each room was fair to look upon ; 
The mirrors glistened, and the brasses shone, 
The very knocker on the outer door, 
If she but passed, was brighter than 

And now the ceaseless turning of the mill 

Of time, that never for an hour stands still, 

^George Herbert, the port, has a v. •,•>,• in our of l,,s ,„ 
which reads 

11 A Rorvant with this clause 

Makes dru 

Who sue- >v- 

Makes that anl th .v. tion fin. 






LADY WENTWORTH. 33 

Ground out the Governor's sixtieth birthday, 1 
And powdered his brown hair with silver-gray. 
The robin, the forerunner of the spring, 
The bluebird with his jocund carolling, 
The restless swallows building in the eaves, 
The golden buttercups, the grass, the leaves, 
The lilacs tossing in the winds of May, 
All welcomed this majestic holiday ! 
He gave a splendid banquet, served on plate, 
Such as became the Governor of the State, 
Who represented England and the King, 
And was magnificent in everything. 
He had invited all his friends and peers, — 
The Pepperels, the Langdons, and the Lears, 
The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, 2 and the rest ; 
For why repeat the name of every guest ? 
But I must mention one in bands and gown, 
The rector there, the Reverend Arthur Brown 
Of the Established Church ; with smiling face 
He sat beside the Governor and said grace ; 
And then the feast went on, as others do, 
But ended as none other I e'er knew. 

When they had drunk the King, with many a cheer, 
The Governor whispered in a servant's ear, 
Who disappeared, and presently there stood 
Within the room, in perfect womanhood, 
A maiden, modest and yet self-possessed, 
Youthful and beautiful, and simply dressed. 
Can this be Martha Hilton ? It must be ! 
Yes, Martha Hilton, and no other she ! 

1 In point of fact, Governor Wentworth was born July 24, 1696, 
and his marriage was on March 15, 1730. 

2 All Portsmouth names. 



34 LADY WENTWORTR. 

Dowered with the beauty of her twenty years, 
How ladylike, how queenlike she appear- : 
The pale, thin crescent of the days gone by 
Is Dian now in all her majesty ! 
Yet scarce a guest perceived that she was the- 
Until the Governor, rising bom his chair. 
Played slightly with his ruffles, then Looked down. 
And said unto the Reverend Arthur Brown : 

"This is my birthday : it shall lik< wise I 
My wedding-day; and you >hall many DM 

The listening guests were greatly mystified, 
None more so than the rector, who replied : 
"Marry you? Yes, that n i pleasant task, 

Your Excellency : but to whom/ I ask 

The Governor answered : "To this lady here; 1 

And beckoned Martha Hilton to draw near. 
She came and stood, all blushes, at his side. 

The rector paused. The impatient Governor eried : 

"This is the lady : do you hesitate 

Then I command you as Chief Magistral 

The rector read the service loud and clear: 

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered hen 

And so on to the end. At his oommand 

On the fourth finger of her fair let't hai 

The Governor placed the ring; and thai was all i 

Martha was Lady Wentworth of the EU1I 



MAD RIVER. 35 

MAD RIVER. 

IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 
TRAVELLER. 

Why dost thou wildly rush and roar, 

Mad River, Mad River ? 1 
Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour 
Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er 

This rocky shelf forever ? 

What secret trouble stirs thy breast ? 

Why all this fret and flurry ? 
Dost thou not know that what is best 
In this too restless world is rest 

From over- work and worry ? 

the river. 

What wouldst thou in these mountains seek, 

O stranger from the city ? 
Is it perhaps some foolish freak 
Of thine, to put the words I speak 

Into a plaintive ditty ? 

TRAVELLER. 

Yes ; I would learn of thee thy song, 

With all its flowing numbers, 
And in a voice as fresh and strong 
As thine is, sing it all day long, 

HAnd hear it in my slumbers. 
1 There are doubtless more rivers than one of this name in the 
White Mountains, but there is one, at least, about which the poem 
might have been written, issuing from the woods behind Water- 
ville, and flowing into the Pemigewasset. 



36 



MAD RIVER. 



THE RIVER. 

A brooklet nameless and unknown 

Was I at first, resembling 
A little child, that all alone 
Comes venturing down the stairs of stone, 

Irresolute and trembling. 

Later, by wayward fancies led, 

For the wide world 1 panted : 

Out of the forest, dark and dread. 

Across the open fields I tied. 

Like one pursued and haunted. 

I tossed my arms, I sang aloud. 
My voice exultant blending 
With thunder from the passing cloud. 
The wind, the forest bent and bowed. 

The rush of rain descending 

I heard the distant ocean call, 
Imploring and entreating ; 

Drawn onward, o'er this rocky wall 
I plunged, and the loud waterfall 
Made answer to the ting. 

And now, beset with many ills, 

A toilsome life I follow : 
Compelled to carry from the hills 
These logs to the impatient mills 

Below there in the hollow. 



Yet something ever cheers and charms 

The rudeness of my labors : 
Daily I water with these arms 






THE BUILDERS. 37 

The cattle of a hundred farms, 

And have the birds for neighbors. 

Men call me Mad, and well they may, 

When, full of rage and trouble, 
I burst my banks of sand and clay, 
And sweep their wooden bridge away, 
Like withered reeds or stubble. 

Now go and write thy little rhyme, 

As of thine own creating. 
Thou seest the day is past its prime ; 
I can no longer waste my time ; 

The mills are tired of waiting. 



THE BUILDERS. 

All are architects of Fate, 

Working in these walls of Time ; 

Some with massive deeds and great, 
Some with ornaments of rhyme. 

Nothing useless is, or low ; 

Each thing in its place is best ; 
And what seems but idle show 

Strengthens and supports the rest. 

For the structure that we raise, 
Time is with materials filled ; 

Our to-days and yesterdays 

Are the blocks with which we build. 

Truly shape and fashion these ; 
Leave no yawning gaps between ; 



38 ANNIE OF THAR AW, 

Think not, because no man sees, 
Such things will remain unseen. 

In the elder days of Art, 

Builders wrought with greatest care 
Each minute and unseen part : 

For the Gods see everywhere. 

Let us do our work as well, 
Both the unseen and the seen : 

Make the house, where Gods may dwell. 
Beautiful, entire, and clean. 

Else our lives are incomplete, 

Standing in these walls erf Tim. 
Broken stairways, where the feet 
Stumble as they seek to climb. 

Build to-day, then, strong and sine. 

With a firm and ample base ; 
And ascending and secure 

Shall to-morrow find its place. 

Thus alone can we attain 

To those turrets, where the eye 

Sees the world as one vast plain, 
And one boundless reach of sky. 



ANNIE OF Til A RAW. 1 

Annie of Tharaw, my true love of <>1<1, 
She is my life, and mv goods, and my gold 
1 Translated from the poem by Simon Dach. 






ANNIE OF THARAW. 39 

Annie of Tharaw her heart once again 
To me has surrendered in joy and in pain. 

> 
Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, 

Thou, my soul, my flesh, and my blood ! 

Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow, 
We will stand by each other, however it blow. 

Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain 
Shall be to our true love as links to the chain. 

As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall, 
The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall, — 

So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, 
Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold 
wrong. 

Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone 

In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known, — 

Through forests I '11 follow, and where the sea flows, 
Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes. 

Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, 

The threads of our two lives are woven in one. 

Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, 
Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid. 

How in the turmoil of life can love stand, 
Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one 
hand ? 



40 THE BELL OF ATRL 

Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strifi 

Like a dog and a cat live such man and wit 

Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love j 

Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and mv dove. 

Whate'er my desire is, in thine may 1>< u : 
I am king of the household, and thou art its <|ii< 

It is this, O my Annie, my heart's >w I rot. 

That makes of us twain hut one Boul in one breast. 

This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell ; 

While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell. 



THE BELL OF A Tin. 1 

At Atri in Abrozzo, 9 a small town 
Of ancient Roman date, but scanl renown, 
One of those little places thai have run 
Half up the hill, beneath a blazing ran, 

And then sat down to rest, Rfl if to 

"I climb no farther upward, come what may," — 

The Re Giovanni, 8 now unknown to fan* 

So many monaicha since have borne tin- name. 

Had a -rea t hell hnng in the market place. 

Beneath a roof, projecting Borne small -pace 

By way of shelter from the bus and rain. 

Then rode he through the streets with all hu train, 

1 One of the Tali a Wn^ui, ..ppn.rd t<> U- mid by a 

Sicilian in the party. 

2 Pronounced A h bri 

8 Pronounced Rd GWvan the translation wti\ u- bond in 

the 18th line of the poem. 



THE BELL OF ATRL 41 

And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long, 
Made proclamation, that whenever wrong 
Was done to any man, he should but ring 
The great bell in the square, and he, the King, 
Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon. 
Such was the proclamation of King John. 

How swift the happy days in Atri sped, 
What wrongs were righted, need not here be said. 
Suffice it that, as all things must decay, 
The hempen rope at length was worn away, 
Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand, 
Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand, 
Till one, who noted this in passing by, 
Mended the rope with braids of briony, 
So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine 
Hung like a votive garland at a shrine. 

By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt 
A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt, 
Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods, 
Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods, 
Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports 
And prodigalities of camps and courts ; — 
Loved, or had loved them ; for at last, grown old, 
His only passion was the love of gold. 

He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds, 
Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds, 
Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all, 
To starve and shiver in a naked stall, ^ 

And day by day sat brooding in his chair, 
Devising plans how best to hoard and spare. 



42 THE BELL OF ATRI. 

At length he said : " What is the use or need 

To keep at my own cost this lazy steed. 

Eating his head off in my stables hei 

When rents are low and provender is dear? 

Let him go feed upon the public ways ; 

I want him only for the holiday-. 

So the old steed was turned into the heat 

Of the long, lonely, silent, skadeless streel ; 

And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn. 

Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn. 

One afternoon, as in that sultry clinic 

It is the custom in the summer time 

With bolted doors and window-shutters olosed, 

The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed : 

When suddenly upon their senses Eel] 

The loud alarum of the accusing bell ! 

The Syndic started from his deep repose, 

Turned on his couch, and listened, and then rose 

And donned his robes, and with reluctant | 

Went panting forth into the market-place, 

Where the great bell upon its cross-beams bwud 

Reiterating with persistent tongut 

In half-articulate jargon, the old song : 

" Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a \\r« 

But ere he reached the belfry's light arcade 
He saw or thought he saw, beneath \t> shad 
No shape of human form of woman born, 
But a poor steed dejected and forlorn, 
Who with uplifted head and eager eve 
Was tugging at the vines of briony. 
" Domeneddio ! ? * cried the Syndic straight, 

1 An Italian exclamation which may !><• translated, Good Lord ! 






THE BELL OF ATRL 43 

" This is the Knight of Atri's steed of state ! 
He calls for justice, being sore distressed, 
And pleads his cause as loudly as the best." 

Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd 

Had rolled together like a summer cloud, 

And told the story of the wretched beast 

In five-and-twenty different ways at least, 

With much gesticulation and appeal 

To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal. 

The Knight was called and questioned ; in reply 

Did not confess the fact, did not deny ; 

Treated the matter as a pleasant jest, 

And set at naught the Syndic and the rest, 

Maintaining, in an angry undertone, 

That he should do what pleased him with his own. 

And thereupon the Syndic gravely read 

The proclamation of the King ; then said : 

" Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay, 

But cometh back on foot, and begs its way ; 

Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds, 

Of flowers of chivalry and not of weeds ! 

These are familiar proverbs ; but I fear 

They never yet have reached your knightly ear. 

What fair renown, what honor, what repute 

Can come to you from starving this poor brute ? 

He who serves well and speaks not, merits more 

Than they who clamor loudest at the door. 

Therefore the law decrees that as this steed 

Served you in youth, henceforth you shall take heed 

To comfort his old age, and to provide 

Shelter in stall, and food and field beside." 



44 THE RETURN OF SPRING. 

The Knight withdrew abashed ; the people all 
Led home the steed in triumph to his stall. 
The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee, 
And cried aloud : u Right well it pleaseth me ! 
Church-bells at best but ring us to the door ; 
But go not in to mass ; my bell doth more : 
It cometh into court and pleads the cause 
Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws ; 
And this shall make, in every Christian dim 
The Bell of Atri famous for all tiun 



THE BROOK AND THE WAVE. 

The brooklet came from the mountain, 

As sang the bard of old. 
Running with feet of silver 
Over the sands of gold ! 

Far away in the briny ocean 

There rolled a turbulent wave, 
Now singing along the Bea-beach, 

Now howling along the ra\ 

And the brooklet has found the billow, 

Though they flowed so far apart, 
And has filled with its freshness and sweetness 

That turbulent, bitter heart ! 



THE RETURN OF SPRING. 1 

Now Time throws off his cloak again 

Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain, 

1 Translated from the French of Chariot d'Ortoi 



THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 45 

And clothes him in the embroidery 
Of glittering sun and clear blue sky. 
With beast and bird the forest rings, 
Each in his jargon cries or sings ; 
And Time throws off his cloak again 
Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain. 

River, and fount, and tinkling brook 

Wear in their dainty livery 

Drops of silver jewelry ; 

In new-made suit they merry look ; 

And Time throws off his cloak again 

Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain. 



THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 

I have read, in some old, marvellous tale^ 
Some legend strange and vague, 

That a midnight host of spectres pale 
Beleaguered the walls of Prague. 

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, 
With the wan moon overhead, 

There stood, as in an awful dream, 
The army of the dead. 

White as a sea-fog, landward bound, 

The spectral camp was seen, 
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 

The river flowed between. 

No other voice nor sound was there, 
No drum, nor sentry's pace ; 






46 THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 

The mist-like banners clasped the air 
As clouds with clouds embrace. 

But when the old cathedral bell 
Proclaimed the morning prayer, 

The white pavilions rose and fell 
On the alarmed air. 

Down the broad valley East and far 

The troubled army tied : 
Up rose the glorious morning star. 

The ghastly host was dead. 

I have read, in the marvellous heart of man. 
That strange and mystic BCroll, 

That an army of phantoms vast and wan 
Beleaguer the human soul. 

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream. 
In Fancy's misty light. 

Gigantic shapes and shadow learn 

Portentous through the night. 

Upon its midnight battle-ground 
The spectra] oamp is seen. 

And, with a sorrowful, deep sound. 
Flows the River of Life between. 

No other voice nor sound is there. 

In the army of the grave : 
No other challenge breaks the air, 

But the rushing of Life's wa 

And when the solemn and deep rhinvh hell 
Entreats the soul to prai , 



GASPAR BECERRA, 47 

The midnight phantoms feel the spell, 
The shadows sweep away, 

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar 

The spectral camp is fled ; 
Faith shineth as a morning star, 

Our ghastly fears are dead. 



GASPAR BECERRA. 1 

By his evening fire the artist 
Pondered o'er his secret shame ; 

Baffled, weary, and disheartened, 

Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. 

'T. was an image of the Virgin 
That had tasked his utmost skill ; 

But, alas ! his fair ideal 

Vanished and escaped him still. 

From a distant Eastern island 

Had the precious wood been brought ; 
Day and night the anxious master 

At his toil untiring wrought ; 

Till, discouraged and desponding, 
Sat he now in shadows deep, 

And the day's humiliation 
Found oblivion in sleep. 

Then a voice cried, " Rise, O master ! 
From the burning brand of oak 
1 Pronounced Becherra. 






48 TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 

Shape the thought that stirs within thee ! 
And the startled artist woke, — 

Woke, and from the smoking embers 
Seized and quenched the glowing wood ; 

And therefrom he carved an image, 
And he saw that it was good. 

O thou sculptor, painter, poet ! 

Take this lesson to thy heart : 
That is best which lieth nearest : 

Shape from that thy work of art. 



TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 

River! that in silence winded 

Through the meadows, bright and free, 

Till at length thy rest thou iiiulest 
In the bosom of the sea I 

Four long years of mingled feeling 

Half in rest, and half in Btrife, 
I have seen thy waters stealing 
Onward, like the stream of life. 1 

Thou hast taught me, Silent River ! 

Many a lesson, deep and Long; 
Thou hast been a generous giver : 

I can give thee but a song. 

Oft in sadness and in illness, 

I have watched thy current glide, 

1 The river Charles flows in view of tin- mansion in Cambridge 
which Mr. Longfellow began to ooonpy in the Bummer <»t 



TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 49 

Till the beauty of its stillness 
Overflowed me, like a tide. 

And in better hours and brighter, 
When I saw thy waters gleam, 

I have felt my heart beat lighter, 
And leap onward with thy stream. 

Not for this alone I love thee, 
Nor because thy waves of blue 

From celestial seas above thee 
Take their own celestial hue. 

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, 

And thy waters disappear, 
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, 

And have made thy margin dear. 

More than this ; — thy name reminds me 
Of three friends, 1 all true and tried ; 

And that name, like magic, binds me 
Closer, closer to thy side. 

Friends my soul with joy remembers ! 

How like quivering flames they start, 
When I fan the living embers 

On the hearthstone of my heart ! 

'T is for this, thou Silent River ! 

That my spirit leans to thee ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver, 

Take this idle song from me. 

1 The three friends hinted at were Charles Sumner, Charles 
Folsom, and Charles Amory. 



50 THREE FRIENDS OF MINE. 

THREE FRIENDS OF MINE. 1 

I 

When I remember them, those friends of mine* 
Who are no longer here, the ooble rli 
Who half my life were more than friends to in< 
And whose discourse was like a generous win 

I most of all remember the divine 

Something, that shone in them, and made n> s» 
The archetypal man, and what might be 
The amplitude of Nature's first design. 

In vain I stretch my hands t<> clasp their hands 
I cannot find them. Nothing now La hit 
But a majestic memory. They meanwhile 

Wander together in Elysiao lands, 
Perchance remembering me, who am bereft 
Of their dear presence, and, remembering, -mil 

II 

In Attica thy birthplace Bhonld have been, 

Or the Ionian Isle-, <>r where the 
Encircle in their arms the ( lycladefl 
So wholly Greek wast thou in thy Berene 
And childlike joy of life, () Philhellen( ' 
Around thee would have swarmed the Attic bee 
Homer had been thy friend, or Socrati 
And Plato welcomed thee to his demesne. 

1 These sonnets have to do with Cornelius Conway Pell 
once Professor of Greek, afterward President al Bai 

lege, Louis Agassiz and Charles Sumner. 'IT and and third 
sonnets were written at Nahant, where both Longfi [low and 
Agassiz had cottages. 

2 Pronounced Sik'lacU 

8 That is, a lover of Hellas, or ' 



THREE FRIENDS OF MINE. 51 

For thee old legends breathed historic breath ; 
Thou sawest Poseidon in the purple sea, 
And in the sunset Jason's fleece of gold ! 

Oh, what hadst thou to do with cruel Death, 
Who wast so full of life, or Death with thee, 
That thou shouldst die before thou hadst grown old ! 

in 

I stand again on the familiar shore, 

And hear the waves of the distracted sea 
Piteously calling and lamenting thee, 
And waiting restless at thy cottage door. 

The rocks, the seaweed on the ocean floor, 
The willows in the meadow, and the free 
Wild winds of the Atlantic welcome me ; 
Then why shouldst thou be dead, and come no more ? 

Ah, why shouldst thou be dead, when common men 
Are busy with their trivial affairs, 
Having and holding ? Why, when thou hadst read 

Nature's mysterious manuscript, and then 
Wast ready to reveal the truth it bears, 
Why art thou silent ? Why shouldst thou be dead ? 

IV 

River, that stealest with such silent pace 
Around the City of the Dead, 1 where lies 
A friend who bore thy name, and whom these eyes 
Shall see no more in his accustomed place, 

Linger and fold him in thy soft embrace, 

And say good night, for now the western skies 
Are red with sunset, and gray mists arise 
Like damps that gather on a dead man's face. 

Good night ! good night ! as we so oft have said 
Beneath this roof at midnight, in the days 
1 Mount Auburn Cemetery lies near the river bank. 



52 



CHARLES SUMXER. 



That are no more, and shall no more return. 
Thou hast but taken thy lamp and gone to bed ; 
I stay a little longer, as one stays 
To cover up the embers that still burn. 



The doors are all wide open ; at the gate 
The blossomed lilacs counterfeit a blai 
And seem to warm the air; a dreamy ha 
Hangs o'er the Brighton meadows like a fat< 

And on their margin, with sea-tides elate, 
The flooded Charles. as in the happier daj 

Writes the last letter of his name, and >ta\ 
His restless steps, as if compelled to wait. 

I also wait; but they will come no moi 
Those friends of mine, whose presence satisfied 
The thirst and hunger of mv heart. Ah me I 

They have forgot te n the pathway to my doorl 
Something is gone from nature since they died. 
And summer is not summer, nor can 1 



CHARLES SUMNEB 

Garlands upon his grave 

And flowers upon his hearse, 

And to the tender heart and brave 
The tribute of this verse. 

His was the troubled life, 
The conflict and the pain, 
The grief, the bitterness of Btrifi 

The honor without stain. 



CHARLES SUMNER. 53 

Like Winkelried, 1 lie took 
Into his manly breast 
The sheaf of hostile spears, and broke 
A path for the oppressed. 

Then from the fatal field 
Upon a nation's heart 
Borne like a warrior on his shield ! — 
So should the brave depart. 

Death takes us by surprise, 
And stays our hurrying feet ; 
The great design unfinished lies, 
Our lives are incomplete. 

But in the dark unknown 
- Perfect their circles seem, 
Even as a bridge's arch of stone 
Is rounded in the stream. 

Alike are life and death, 
When life in death survives, 
And the uninterrupted breath 
Inspires a thousand lives. 

Were a star quenched on high, 
For ages would its light, 

1 Arnold of Winkelried, a Swiss hero, who, as the story runs, 
when the Austrians four thousand strong met the Swiss, fifteen 
hundred in number, rushed forward, grasped with outstretched 
arms as many Austrian pikes as he could reach, buried them in 
his own body and so fell forward to the earth. His companions 
threw themselves into the breach thus made and so won the day. 
The battle took place at Sempach in Switzerland, July 9, 1386, 
and its anniversary is still kepto 



54 OLIVER BASSELIN. 

Still travelling downward from the sky, 
Shine on our mortal sight. 

So when a great man dies, 1 
For years beyond our ken, 
The light he leaves behind him lies 
Upon the paths of men. 



OLIVER BASSELIN. 

In the Valley of the Vire 2 

Still is seen an ancient mill, 
With its gables quaint and queer, 
And beneath the window-sill, 
On the stone, 
These words alone : 
"Oliver Basselin lived here/' 

Far above it, on the steep, 

Ruined stands the old Chateau ; 
Nothing but the donjon-keep 
Left for shelter or for show. 
Its vacant eyes 
Stare at the skies, 
Stare at the valley green and dec]). 

Once a convent, old and brown. 

Looked, but ah ! it looks no more, 
From the neighboring hillside down 

On the rushing and the roar 
Of the stream 

1 Sumner died March 11, 1874. 

2 The pronunciation will be seen by the rhyme. 



OLI VER BA SSELIN. 55 

Whose sunny gleam 
Cheers the little Norman town. 



In that darksome mill of stone, 
To the water's dash and din, 
Careless, humble, and unknown, 
Sang the poet Basselin 
Songs that fill 
That ancient mill 
With a splendor of its own. 

Never feeling of unrest 

Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed ; 
Only made to be his nest, 
All the lovely valley seemed ; 
No desire 
Of soaring higher 
Stirred or fluttered in his breast. 

True, his songs were not divine ; 

Were not songs of that high art, 
Which, as winds do in the pine, 
Find an answer in each heart ; 
But the mirth 
Of this green earth 
Laughed and revelled in his line. 

From the alehouse and the inn, 
Opening on the narrow street, 

Came the loud, convivial din, 
Singing and applause of feet, 
The laughing lays 



56 NUREMBERG. 

That in those days 
Sang the poet Basselin. 1 

In the castle, cased in steel, 

Knights, who fought at Agincourt, 
Watched and waited, spur on heel ; 
But the poet sang for sport 
Songs that rang 
Another clang, 
Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. 



NUREMBERG. 

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad 

meadow-lands 
Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the 

ancient, stands. 

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of 

art and song, 
Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks 

that round them throng : 

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperor 
rough and bold, 

Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centu- 
ries old ; 

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their 
uncouth rhyme, 

1 Basselin called his light, gay Bongs, Songs of Vaui <l< i Vh 
that is, songs of the valleys of Vire, and the phrase beoami 
rupted into the modern Vaudeville. 



NUREMBERG. 57 

That their great imperial city stretched its hand 
through every clime. 1 

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an 

iron band, 
Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cuni- 

gunde's hand ; 

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic 

days 
Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's 

praise. 2 

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world 

of Art : 
Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in 

the common mart ; 

And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops 

carved in stone, 
By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. 

In the church of sainted Sebald 3 sleeps enshrined his 
holy dust, 

1 An old popular proverb of the town may be translated 

Nuremberg's Hand 
Goes through every land. 

2 Melchior Pfinzing was a German poet of the sixteenth cen- 
tury, and the Emperor (Kaiser in German) Maximilian was the 
hero of one of his best known poems. 

3 " The tomb of St. Sebald, in the church which bears his 
name, is one of the richest works of art in Nuremberg. It is of 
bronze, and was cast by Peter Vischer and his sons, who labored 
upon it thirteen years. It is adorned with nearly one hundred 
figures, among which, those of the Twelve Apostles are conspicu- 
ous for size and beauty." H. W. Longfellow. 



58 NUREMBERG 

And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to 
age their trust ; 

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of 

sculpture rare, 
Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the 

painted air. 

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, rev- 
erent heart, 
Lived and labored Albrecht Diirer, the K\ list of 

Art ; l 

Hence in silence and in Borrow, toiling -till with busy 

hand, 
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking far the Better 

Land. 

Emigravit 2 is the inscription on the t< milestone where 

he lies ; 
Dead he is not, but departed, — for the artisi never 

dies. 

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine *'r\i 

more fair, 
That he once has trod its pavement, that he once lias 

breathed its air ! 

1 The father of wood-engravin 

2 That is, he went away from hifl country. 



THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS. 59 

THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS. 1 

What say the Bells of San Bias 
To the ships that southward pass 

From the harbor of Mazatlaii ? 
To them it is nothing more 
Than the sound of surf on the shore, — 

Nothing more to master or man. 

But to me, a dreamer of dreams, 
To whom what is and what seems 

Are often one and the same, — 
The Bells of San Bias to me 
Have a strange, wild melody, 

And are something more than a name. 

For bells are the voice of the church ; 
They have tones that touch and search 

The hearts of young and old ; 
One sound to all, yet each 
Lends a meaning to their speech, 

And the meaning is manifold. 

They are a voice of the Past, 
Of an age that is fading fast, 

Of a power austere and grand ; 
When the flag of Spain unfurled 
Its folds o'er this western world, 

And the Priest was lord of the land. 

1 The last poem written by Mr. Longfellow. The last verse 
but one is dated March 12, 1882. The final verse was added 
March 15. Mr. Longfellow died March 24. The poem was 
suggested by an article, Typical Journeys and Country Life in 
Mexico, by W. H. Bishop, in Harper's Magazine, March, 1882, 
which the poet had just read. 



60 THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS. 

The chapel that once looked down 
On the little seaport town 

Has crumbled into the dust ; 
And on oaken beams below 
The bells swing to and fro, 

And are green with mould and rust. 

" Is, then, the old faith dead/' 
They say, " and in its stead 

Is some new faith proclaimed. 
That we are forced to remain 
Naked to sun and rain, 

Unsheltered and ashamed ? 

" Once in our tower aloof 
We rang over wall and roof 

Our warnings and our complaints ; 
And round about us there 
The white doves rilled the air. 

Like the white souls of the saiir 

"The saints ! Ah, have they grown 
Forgetful of their own ? 

Are they asleep, or dead, 
That open to the sky 
Their ruined Missions lie, 

No longer tenanted ? 



i &' 



" Oh, bring us back once more 
The vanished days of yore, 

When the world with faith was filled ; 

Bring back the fervid zeal, 
The hearts of fire and steel. 

The hands that believe and build. 



THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. 61 

" Then from our tower again 

We will send over land and main 

Our voices of command, 
Like exiled kings who return 
To their thrones, and the people learn 

That the Priest is lord of the land ! " 

O Bells of San Bias, in vain 
Ye call back the Past again ! 

The Past is deaf to your prayer ; 
Out of the shadows of night 
The world rolls into light ; 

It is daybreak everywhere. 



THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. 1 

Leafless are the trees ; their purple branches 
Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral, 

Rising silent 
In the Red Sea of the winter sunset. 

From the hundred chimneys of the village, 

Like the Afreet in the Arabian story, 

Smoky columns 
Tower aloft into the air of amber. 

At the window winks the flickering firelight ; 
Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer, 

Social watch-fires 
Answering one another through the darkness. 

I Mr. Longfellow wrote in his diary, under date of December 
20, 1854 : — 

II The weather is ever so cold. The landscape looks dreary ; but 
the sunset and twilight are resplendent. Sketch out a poem, 
The Golden Mile-Stone" 



62 THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. 

On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing, 
And like Ariel 1 in the cloven pine-tree 

For its freedom 
Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them. 

By the fireside there are old men seated, 
Seeing ruined cities in the ashes. 

Asking sadly 
Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them. 

By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, 
Building castles fair, with stately stair\\a\ 

Asking blindly 
Of the Future what it cannot give them. 

By the fireside tragedies arc acted 

In whose scenes appear two actors only, 

Wife and husband. 
And above them God the sole spectator. 

By the fireside there are peace and comfort, 
Wives, and children, with fair, thoughtful facc>. 

Waiting, watching 
For a well-known footstep in the pa 

Each man's chimney is his Golden Mile Stone; 2 
Is the central point, from which he measun 

Every distance 
Through the gateways of the world around him. 

1 See Shakespeare's The T< mpt it* 

2 A stone column wus set up by the Romans to mark eaofa mile 

on their great military roads, and in the Forum in Rom< , as at the 
centre of the Empire, the Emperor Augustus erected a giM brant 

column. The base of the column is ] 1. 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 63 

In his farthest wanderings still he sees it ; 

Hears the talking flame, the answering night-wind, 

As he heard them 
When he sat with those who were, but are not. 

Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion, 
Nor the march of the encroaching city, 

Drives an exile 
From the hearth of his ancestral homestead. 

We may build more splendid habitations, 

Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculptures, 

But we cannot 
Buy with gold the old associations ! 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 1 

It was the season, when through all the land 
The merle and mavis build, and building sing 

Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand, 

Whom Saxon Caedmon 2 calls the Blithe-heart King ; 

When on the boughs the purple buds expand, 
The banners of the vanguard of the Spring, 

And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap, 

And wave their fluttering signals from the steep. 

The robin and the bluebird, piping loud, 

Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee ; 

1 One of the Tales of a Wayside Inn, supposed to be told by 
the Poet of the company. Killingworth in Connecticut was 
named from the English town Kenilworth, but both in England 
and in Connecticut the name became changed into Killingworth 
in popular usage, and here that name has become the regular 
name of the town. 

2 Pronounced Kedmon. 



64 THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 

The sparrows chirped as if they still wi re proud 
Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned 1>< ; l 

And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd, 
Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly, 

Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said : 

" Give us, O Lord, this day, our daily bread ! 

Across the Sound the birds of passage Bailed, 

Speaking some unknown language strange and sweet 

Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed 
The village with the cheers of all their flee! ; 

Or quarrelling together, laughed and railed 
Like foreign sailors, landed in th< 

Of seaport town, and with outlandish DOl 

Of oaths and gibberish Erightenin pis and boys* 

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, 

In fabulous days, some hundred \e;i 
And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth, 

Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow. 

That mingled with the universal mirth, 
Cassandra-like, prognosticating W06 
They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful 

words 
To swift destruction the whole race of birds. 

And a town-meeting was convened Btraightwaj 
To set a price upon the guilty heads 

Of these marauders, who. in lieu of pay, 

Levied black-mail upon the garden beds 

And cornfields, and beheld without dismay 
The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering Bhreds; 

1 See the ( ! of tffttthew, \. 29 SI. 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 65 

The skeleton that waited at their feast, 1 
Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased. 

Then from his house, a temple painted white, 
With fluted columns, and a roof of red, 

The Squire came forth, august and splendid sight ! 
Slowly descending, with majestic tread, 

Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right, 
Down the long street he walked, as one who said, 

" A town that boasts inhabitants like me 

Can have no lack of good society ! " 

The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere, 
The instinct of whose nature was to kill ; 

The wrath of God he preached from year to year, 
And read, with fervor, Edwards on the Will ; 2 

His favorite pastime was to slay the deer 
In Summer on some Adirondac hill ; 

E'en now, while walking down the rural lane, 

He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane. 

From the Academy, whose belfry crowned 
The hill of Science with its vane of brass, 

Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, 

Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass, 

And all absorbed in reveries profound 
Of fair Almira in the upper class, 

Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, 

As pure as water, and as good as bread. 

1 There is an old story that the Egyptians used to set up an 
image of a dead man at their feasts, to remind the guests of the 
saying, " Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die." 

2 Jonathan Edwards was a famous New England divine who 
lived in the former half of the eighteenth century, and wrote a 
great book on T~he Freedom of the Will. 



66 THE BIRDS OF KILLINQWORTH, 

And next the Deacon issued from his door, 
In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as snov 

A suit of sable bombazine he won 

His form was ponderous, and his step was >low ; 

There never was so wise a man befon 

He seemed the incarnate " Well, I told you - 

And to perpetuate his greal renown 

There was a street named after him in town. 

These came together in the new town-hall, 
With sundry farmers from tli jjion round. 

The Squire presided, dignified and tall, 
His air impressive and hi^ reasoning Bound : 

111 fared it with the birds, l><»tli greal and small : 
Hardly a friend in all thai crowd they found. 

But enemies enough, who ever] one 

Charged them with all the crime death the sun. 

When they had ended, from his place apart 
Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wron 

And, trembling like a steed before the start, 
Looked round bewildered on the ex] n1 throng 

Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart 

To speak out what was in him, clear and strong. 
Alike regardless of their smile or frown. 
And quite determined not to be laughed down. 

"Plato, anticipating the Review 
From his Republic banished without pit 

The Poets ; in this little town of yours, 
You put to death, by means of a ( !ommil 

The ballad-singers and the Troubadoiu 
The street-musicians of the heavenly citj 

The birds, who make BWeel music for U8 all 

In our dark hours, as David did for SauL 






THE BIRDS OF KILLING WORTH. 67 

" The thrush that carols at the dawn of day 
From the green steeples of the piny wood ; 

The oriole in the elm ; the noisy jay, 
Jargoning like a foreigner at his food ; 

The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, 
Flooding with melody the neighborhood ; 

Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng 

That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song. 

" You slay them all ! and wherefore ? for the gain 
Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, 

Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, 

Scratched up at random by industrious feet, 

Searching for worm or weevil after rain ! 
Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet 

As are the songs these uninvited guests 

Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. 

" Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these ? 

Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught 
The dialect they speak, where melodies 

Alone are the interpreters of thought ? 
Whose household words are songs in many keys, 

Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught ! 
Whose habitations in the tree-tops even 
Are half-way houses on the road to heaven ! 

" Think, every morning when the sun peeps through 
The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, 

How jubilant the happy birds renew 

Their old, melodious madrigals of love ! 1 

And when you think of this, remember too 

1 Marlowe, an English poet of Shakespeare's time, has a line — 
" Melodious birds sing madrigals." 



68 THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 

'T is always morning somewhere, and above 
The awakening continents, from shore to shore, 
Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. 

" Think of your woods and orchards without birds ! 

Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams 
As in an idiot's brain remembered words 

Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams ! 
Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds 

Make up for the lost music, when your teams 
Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more 
The feathered gleaners follow to your door ? 

" What ! would you rather see the incessant stir 
Of insects in the windrows of the hay, 

And hear the locust and the grasshopper 
Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play ? 

Is this more pleasant to you than the whir 
Of meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay, 

Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take 

Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake ? 

" You call them thieves and pillagers ; but know, 
They are the winged wardens of your farms, 

Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe, 
And from your harvests keep a hundred harms ; 

Even the blackest of them all, the crow, 
Renders good service as your man-at-arms, 

Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, 

And crying havoc on the slug and snail. 

" How can I teach your children gentleness, 

And mercy to the weak, and reverence 
For Life, which, in its weakness or excess, 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 69 

Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence, 
Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less 

The selfsame light, although averted hence, 
When by your laws, your actions, and your speech, 
You contradict the very things I teach ? " 

With this he closed ; and through the audience went 
A murmur, like the rustle of dead leaves ; 

The farmers laughed and nodded, and some bent 
Their yellow heads together like their sheaves ; 

Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment 

Who put their trust in bullocks and in beeves. 

The birds were doomed ; and, as the record shows, 

A bounty offered for the heads of crows. 

There was another audience out of reach, 
Who had no voice nor vote in making laws, 

But in the papers read his little speech, 

And crowned his modest temples with applause ; 

They made him conscious, each one more than each, 
He still was victor, vanquished in their cause. 

Sweetest of all the applause he won from thee, 

O fair Almira at the Academy ! 

And so the dreadful massacre began ; 

O'er fields and orchards, and o'er woodland crests, 
The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. 

Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains on their breasts, 
Or wounded crept away from sight of man, 

While the young died of famine in their nests ; 
A slaughter to be told in groans, not words, 
The very St. Bartholomew of Birds ! 1 

i The Massacre of St. Bartholomew was the name given to 
the sudden destruction of Huguenots in France, by order of the 



70 THE BIRDS OF KILLING WORTH. 

The Summer came, and all tlie^ birds were dead ; 

The days were like hot coals ; the very ground 
Was burned to ashes ; in the orchards fed 

Myriads of caterpillars, and around 
The cultivated fields and garden beds 

Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found 
No foe to check their march, till they had made 
The land a desert without leaf or shade. 

Devoured by worms, like Herod, 1 was the town, 

Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly 
Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun 
down 

The canker-worms upon the passers-by, 
Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown, 

Who shook them off with just a little en 
They were the terror of each favorite walk, 
The endless theme of all the village talk. 

The farmers grew impatient, but a few 

Confessed their error, and would not complain, 

For after all, the best thing one can do 
When it is raining, is to let it rain. 

Then they repealed the law, although they knew 
It woidd not call the dead to life again; 

As school-boys, finding their mistake too late. 

Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate. 

That year in Killingworth the Autumn came 

Without the light of his majestic look, 

ruling sovereign, Charles DL, at the instance of his mother Cathe- 
rine, begun on St. Bartholomew's Day, i. e. between the 24th and 
25th of August. The year was 1672. 

1 The Herod thus devoured was the grandson <>f tin Berod 
who ordered the massacre of the Iimoeen 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 71 

The wonder of the falling tongues of flame, 
The illumined pages of his Doom's-Day book. 1 

A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame, 
And drowned themselves despairing in the brook, 

While the wild wind went moaning everywhere, 

Lamenting the dead children of the air ! 

But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen, 
A sight that never yet by bard was sung, 

As great a, wonder as it would have been 
If some dumb animal had found a tongue ! 

A wagon, overarched with evergreen, 

Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung, 

All full of singing birds, came down the street, 

Filling the air with music wild and sweet. 

From all the country round these birds were brought, 
By order of the town, with anxious quest, 

And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought 
In woods and fields the places they loved best, 

Singing loud canticles, which many thought 
Were satires to the authorities addressed, 

While others, listening in green lanes, averred 

Such lovely music never had been heard ! 

But blither still and louder carolled they 
Upon the morrow, for they seemed to know 

It was the fair Almira's wedding-day, 
And everywhere, around, above, below, 

When the Preceptor bore his bride away, 
Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow, 

1 The original Doom's-Day or Domesday book was a regis- 
tration of all the lands in the kingdom of England, ordered by 
William the Conqueror. The term is also applied to the judg- 
ment-book or book of the day of doom. 



72 THE HERONS OF ELM WOOD. 

And a new heaven bent over a new earth 
Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth. 

1863. 



THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD. 

Warm and still is the summer night. 
As here by the river's brink I wander ; 

White overhead are the stars, and white 

The glimmering lamps on the hillside yonder. 

Silent are all the sounds of day ; 

Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets, 
And the cry of the herons winging their way 

O'er the poet's house in the Elmwood ' thickets. 

Call to him, herons, as slowly yon pass 

To your roosts in the haunts of the exiled thrushes, 
Sing him the song of the green morass, 

And the tides that water the reeds and rushes. 

Sing him the mystical Song of the Hern, 

And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking 

For only a sound of lament we discern, 

And cannot interpret the words you are speaking. 

Sing of the air, and the wild delighl 

Of wings that uplift and winds that uphold you. 
The joy of freedom, the rapture of flight 

Through the drift of the floating mists thai enfold 
you; 

1 Elmwood, a short distance from Longfellow 9 ! borne, was 
the home of his brother poet and friend, Jamefl Etoflaell LowelL 



BAYARD TAYLOR. 73 

Of the landscape lying so far below, 

With its towns and rivers and desert places ; 

And the splendor of light above, and the glow 
Of the limitless, blue, ethereal spaces. 

Ask him if songs of the Troubadours, 
Or of Minnesingers in old black-letter, 

Sound in his ears more sweet than -yours, 

And if yours are not sweeter and wilder and bet- 
ter. 

Sing to him, say to him, here at his gate, 

Where the boughs of the stately elms are meet- 
ing, 

Some one hath lingered to meditate, 

And send him unseen this friendly greeting ; 

That many another hath done the same, 

Though not by a sound was the silence broken ; 

The surest pledge of a deathless name 

Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken. 
1876, 

BAYARD TAYLOR. 

Dead he lay among his books ! 
The peace of God was in his looks. 

As the statues in the gloom 
Watch o'er Maximilian's tomb, 1 

So those volumes from their shelves 
Watched him, silent as themselves. 
1 In the cathedral at Innsbruck. 



74 BAYARD TAYLOR. 

Ah! his hand will nevermore 

Turn their storied ] 

Nevermore his lips repeat 
Songs of theirs, however sweet. 

Let the lifeless body rest! 
He is gone, who was its gn 

Gone, as travellers haste to In 
An inn, nor tarry until ev< 

Traveller! in whal realms afar, 

In what planet, in \s liat star, 

In what vast, aerial sji 
Shines the light upon th\ t 

In what gardens of delight 
Rest thy wear] Eeei to-nighl 

Poet! thou, whose l;it( ->1 \ . 

Was a garland on thy hearse | 

Thou hast rang, with organ tone, 
In Deukalion'a ' life, thine own ; 

On the ruins of the Pa 

Blooms the perfect flower at last. 

Friend I but yesterday the bell 
Rang for thee their Lond Farewell 

1 Prince Deukalion was the 1 r.;.\;ml Tajrkrt great 

poems. 



1878. 



TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE. 75 

And to-day they toll for thee, 
Lying dead beyond the sea ; x 

Lying dead among thy books, 
The peace of God in all thy looks ! 



TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE. 2 

The ceaseless rain is falling fast, 

And yonder gilded vane, 
Immovable for three days past, 

Points to the misty main. 

It drives me in upon myself 
. And to the fireside gleams, 
To pleasant books that crowd my shelf, 
And still more pleasant dreams. 

I read whatever bards have sung 

Of lands beyond the sea, 
And the bright days when I was young 

Come thronging back to me. 

In fancy I can hear again 

The Alpine torrent's roar, 
The mule-bells on the hills of Spain, 

The sea at Elsinore. 

1 Taylor, the poet, the writer of travels and of stories, was 
made Minister of the United States in Germany, and died in 
Berlin, December 19, 1878. 

2 This poem was written as an introduction to a series of vol- 
umes edited by Mr. Longfellow, entitled Poems of Places. 



76 TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE. 

I see the convent's gleaming wall 
Rise from its groves of pin 

And towers of old cathedrals tall, 
And castles by the Rhine. 

I journey on by park and spin 
Beneath centennial trees, 

Through fields with poppies all on ft 
And gleams of distant seas. 

I fear no more the dusl and heat, 

No more I fori Eatigue, 
While journeying with another t 

O'er many a lengthening leagui 

Let others traverse sea and land. 

And toil through various (dim. 
I turn the world round with m\ hand 
Beading these poets' rhym< 

From them I Irani whatever lies 
Beneath each changing zon< 

And see, when Looking with their rves, 
Better than with mine own. 



A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET. 77 
A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET. 1 

OCTOBER, 1746. 
MR. THOMAS PRINCE loquitur. 

A fleet with flags arrayed 

Sailed from the port of Brest, 
And the Admiral's ship displayed 

The signal : " Steer southwest." 
For this Admiral D'Anville 

Had sworn by cross and crown 
To ravage with fire and steel 

Our helpless Boston Town. 

There were rumors in the street, 

In the houses there was fear 
Of the coming of the fleet, 

And the danger hovering near. 
And while from mouth to mouth 

Spread the tidings of dismay, 
I stood in the Old South, 

Saying humbly : " Let us pray ! 

" O Lord ! we would not advise ; 
But if in thy Providence 
A tempest should arise 

To drive the French fleet hence, 

1 The capture of Louisburg, a stronghold of the French in 
Cape Breton, in 1745, by a combined land and sea force, organ- 
ized by Governor Shirley of Massachusetts, greatly incensed the 
French, and in 1746 they sent over a fleet under command of 
the Admiral D'Anville, with the special purpose of wreaking 
vengeance on Boston. The fleet met with a series of disasters, 
and nothing came of the attempt. The Reverend Thomas Prince 
was minister of the Old South in Boston. 






78 A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET. 

And scatter it far and wide, 

Or sink it in the sea. 
We should be satisfied. 

And thine the glory be.*' 

This was the prayer I made. 

For my sonl was all on Hanu 
And even as I prayed 

The answering tempesi came ; 
It came with a mighty power, 

Shaking the windows and walla, 
And tolling the bell in the tow< 

As it tolls at funerals. 

The lightning suddenly 

Unsheathed its flaming sword. 
And 1 cried : "Stand still, and see 
The 'salvation of the Lord I 

The heavens were blach with cloud, 

The sea was white with hail. 
And ever more fierce and loud 

Blew the ( October gal< 
The fleel it overtool 

And the broad Bails in tin* win 
Like the tents of Clishan sIhm.I 

( )r the curtains of Midian. 
Down on the reeling decks 
Crashed the overwhelming s< 

Ah, never were there w n cks 
So pitiful as these ! 

Like a potter's vessel broki 

The groat BhipS of the Lift 



KING CHRISTIAN. 79 

They were carried away as a smoke, 

Or sank like lead in the brine. 
O Lord ! before thy path 

They vanished and ceased to be, 
When thou didst walk in wrath 

With thine horses through the sea ! 



KING CHRISTIAN. 1 

A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK. 

King Christian stood by the lofty mast 

In mist and smoke ; 
His sword was hammering so fast, 
Through Gothic helm and brain it passed ; 
Then sank each hostile hulk and mast, 

In mist and smoke. 
" Fly ! " shouted they, " fly, he who can ! 
Who braves of Denmark's Christian 

The stroke ? " 

Nils Juel 2 gave heed to the tempest's roar, 

Now is the hour ! 
He hoisted his blood-red flag once more, 
And smote upon the foe full sore, 
And shouted loud, through the tempest's roar, 

" Now is the hour ! " 
" Fly ! " shouted they, " for shelter fly ! 
Of Denmark's Juel who can defy 

The power ? " 

1 Written during a visit to Copenhagen in September, 1835* 
The poet first heard the air from some strolling musician in a 
coffee-house, and, looking up the words, translated them. 

2 A celebrated Danish admiral. 



80 A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 

North Sea ! a glimpse of Wessel ' rent 

Thy murky sky ! 
Then champions to thine arms were Bent ; 
Terror and Death glared where he went; 
From the waves was heard a wail, that rent 

Thy murky sky ! 
From Denmark thunders Tordenskiol 
Let each to Heaven oommend his Boul, 

And fly ! 

Path of the Dane to fame and might I 
Dark-rolling wav. 

Receive thy friend, who. Booming flight, 
Goes to meet danger with despifc 
Proudly as thou the tempest's might, 

Dark-rolling \va\. 

And amid pleasures and alarm 
And war and victor] , be thine i 

My grav. 



A GLEAM OF srXsMixi 

This is the place. >t;in<l still, my steed, 

Let me review the scei 
And summon from the shadowy Pa 

The forms thai once Iki\ e I 

The P.'ist ;tn(| Present here unite 

Beneath Time's flowing t id< 
Like footprints hidden by a brool 

But seen on either sid( 

1 Peder Wessel was a vice-admiral, I pi 

received the title of Tordenskiold (pronounced Toi 

Thundershield. 



A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE, 81 

Here runs the highway to the town ; 

There the green lane descends, 
Through which I walked to church with thee, 

O gentlest of my friends ! x 

The shadow of the linden-trees 

Lay moving on the grass ; 
Between them and the moving boughs, 

A shadow, thou didst pass. 

Thy dress was like the lilies, 

And thy heart as pure as they : 
One of God's holy messengers 

Did walk with me that day. 

I saw the branches of the trees 

Bend down thy touch to meet, 
The clover-blossoms in the grass 

Rise up to kiss thy feet. 

" Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, 
Of earth and folly born ! " 
Solemnly sang the village choir 
On that sweet Sabbath morn. 

Through the closed blinds the golden sun 

Poured in a dusty beam, 
Like the celestial ladder seen 

By Jacob in his dream. 

1 The scene of this poem is mentioned in the poet's diary 
under date of August 31, 1846. " In the afternoon a delicious 
drive with F. and C. through Brookline, by the church and 'the 
green lane,' and homeward through a lovelier lane, with bar- 
berries and wild vines clustering over the old stone walls." 



82 A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 

And ever and anon, the wind 
Sweet-scented with the hay, 
Turned o'er the hymn-book'fl fluttering I 

That on the window lay. 

Long was the good man's sermon, 

Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
For he .spake ol Kuth the beautiful, 

And still I thought of thee. 

Long was the prayer he uttered, 

Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
For in my heart I prayed w i t li him, 

And still I thought of thee 

But now, alas ! the place Beems changed ; 

Thou art no longer here : 
Part of the sunshine of the scene 

"With thee did disappear. 

Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, 
Like pine-trees dark and bigh, 

Subdue the light of noon, and breathe 
A low and ceaseless sigh ; 

This memory brightens o'er the pasl 
As when the sun, concealed 

Behind some cloud thai near us han ,r s. 
Shines on a distant field. 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 83 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 1 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms ; 

But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, 
When the death-angel touches those swift keys ! 

What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, 

The cries of agony, the endless groan, 
Which, through the ages that have gone before us, 

In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, 

Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, 

And loud, amid the universal clamor, 

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 

1 On his wedding journey in the summer of 1843, Mr. Long- 
fellow passed through Springfield, Massachusetts, and visited the 
United States arsenal there, in company with Mr. Charles Sum- 
ner. " While Mr. Sumner was endeavoring," says Mr. S. Long- 
fellow, " to impress upon the attendant that the money expended 
upon these weapons of war would have been much better spent 
upon a great library, Mrs. Longfellow pleased her husband by 
remarking how like, an organ looked the ranged and shining 
gun-barrels which covered the walls from floor to ceiling, and 
suggesting what mournful music Death would bring from them. 
* We grew quite warlike against war/ she wrote, * and I urged 
H. to write a peace poem.* " The poem was written some months 
later. The association with Sumner is especially interesting as 
that statesman was conspicuous in his advocacy of peace princi- 
ples. 



84 THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, 

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin : 

The tumult of each sacked and burning village : 
The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; 

The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage : 
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, 
The rattling musketry, the dashing blade : 

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder 
The diapason of the cannonade. 

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises. 
With such accursed instruments as these, 

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices. 
And jarrest the celestial harmonies ? 

Were half the power that fills the world with tern 
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and oourte, 

Given to redeem the human mind from error, 
There were no need of arsenals or fort 

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ! 

And every nation, that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 

Would wear forevermore the curse <>t Cain! 

Down the dark future, through long generation 

The echoing sounds grow fainter and then 0M86; 
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 
I hear once more the voice of Chris! say, " P< 



THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE. 85 

Peace ! and no longer from its brazen portals 
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies I 

But beautiful as songs of the immortals, 
The holy melodies of love arise. 



THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE. 

Saint Augustine ! well hast thou said, 
That of our vices we can frame 

A ladder, if we will but tread 

Beneath o; r feet each deed of shame ! 1 

AM common things, each day's events, 
That with the hour begin and end, 

Our pleasures and our discontents, 
Are rounds by which we may ascend. 

The low desire, the base design, 
That makes another's virtues less ; 

The revel of the ruddy wine, 
And all occasions of excess ; 

The longing for ignoble things ; 

The strife for triumph more than truth ; 
The hardening of the heart, that brings 

Irreverence for the dreams of youth ; 

All thoughts of ill ; all evil deeds, 

That have their root in thoughts of ill ; 



l 



Notice what Tennyson says at the beginning of In Memoriam : 

" I held it truth, with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones, 
That men may rise on stepping-stones 
Of their dead selves to higher things." 



86 THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE. 

Whatever hinders or impedes 
The action of the nobler will ; — 

All these must first be trampled down 
Beneath our feet, if we would gain 

In the bright fields of fair renown 
The right of eminent domain. 

We have not wings, we cannot soar ; 

But we have feet to scale and climb ' 
By slow degrees, by more and more, 

The cloudy summits of our time. 

The mighty pyramids of stone 

That wedge-like cleave the desert aii 

When nearer seen, and better known, 
Are but gigantic flights of stairs. 

The distant mountains, that uproar 
Their solid bastions to the skies. 

Are crossed by pathways, that appear 
As we to higher levels rise. 

The heights by great men reached and kept 
Were not attained by sudden flight, 

But they, w r hile their companions slept, 
Were toiling upward in the night. 

Standing on what too long we bore 

With shoulders bent and downcast eye 

We may discern — unseen before — 
A path to higher destinies, 

Nor deem the irrevocable Past 
As wholly wasted, wholly vain, 



HA WTHORNE. 87 



If, rising on its wrecks, at last 
To something nobler we attain. 



HAWTHORNE. 

May 23, 1864. 1 

How beautiful it was, that one bright day 

In the long week of rain ! 
Though all its splendor could not chase away 

The omnipresent pain. 

The lovely town was white with apple-blooms, 

And the great elms o'erhead 
Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms 

Shot through with golden thread. 

Across the meadows, by the gray old manse, 

The historic river flowed : 
I was as one who wanders in a trance, 

Unconscious of his road. 

The faces of familiar friends seemed strange ; 

Their voices I could hear, 
And yet the words they uttered seemed to change 

Their meaning to my ear. 

1 The date is that of the burial of Hawthorne. The poem was 
written just a month later. Mr. Longfellow wrote to Mr. Fields : 
" I have only tried to describe the state of mind I was in on that 
day. Did you not feel so likewise ? " In sending a copy of the 
lines at the same time to Mrs. Hawthorne, he wrote : " I feel 
how imperfect and inadequate they are ; but I trust you will 
pardon their deficiencies for the love I bear his memory." 



88 THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 

For the one face I looked for was not there, 

The one low voice was mute ; 
Only an unseen presence filled the air, 

And baffled my pursuit. 

Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream 

Dimly my thought defines ; 
I only see — a dream within a dream — 

The hill-top hearsed with pines. 



I only hear above his place of rest 

Their tender undertone, 
The infinite longings of a troubled breast, 

The voice so like his own. 

There in seclusion and remote from men 

The wizard hand lies cold. 
Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, 

And left the tale half told. 

Ah ! who shall lift that wand of magic power, 

And the lost clew regain ? 
The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower 

Unfinished must remain ! 






THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 

A MIST was driving down the British Channel, 

The day was just begun, 
And through the window-panes, on floor and panel. 

Streamed the red autumn sun. 




THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 89 

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, 

And the white sails of ships ; 
And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon 

Hailed it with feverish lips. 

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover 

Were all alert that day 9 
To see the French war-steamers speeding over, 

When the fog cleared away. 

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, 

Their cannon, through the night, 
Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, 

The sea-coast opposite. 

And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations 

On every citadel; 
Each answering each, with morning salutations, 

That all was well. 

And down the coast, all taking up the burden, 

Replied the distant forts, 
As if to summon from his sleep the Warden 1 

And Lord of the Cinque Ports. 

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, 

No drum-beat from the wall, 
No morning gun from the black fort's embrasure, 

Awaken with its call ! 

No more, surveying with an eye impartial 
The long line of the coast, 

1 The Warden was the Duke of Wellington who died Septem- 
ber 13, 1852. The five ports are named in the ninth line. 



90 THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL. 

Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field Marshal 
Be seen upon his post ! 

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior. 

In sombre harness mailed. 
Dreaded of man, and Burnamed the D» ver, 

The rampart wall had scaled. 

He passed into the chamber of the sleeps 

The dark and silent room. 

And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, 
The Bilence and the gloom. 

He did not pause to parity or dissemble, 

But smote the Warden hoar : 
Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble 

And groan from Bhore t<> ahoi 

Meanwhile, without, the Burl] cannon waited, 

The sun rose bright o'erhead : 
Nothing in Nature's aspeet intimated 

That a great man was dead. 



THE LEGEND OF THE ( ROSSBILL. 1 
( )n the cross the dying Saviour 

Heavenward lift- his eyelids calm, 

Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling 

In his pierced and bleeding |>alm. 
And by all the world forsaken. 

Sees lie how with zealous care 
1 Translated from the German of .Juli 






1 



AFTERMA TH. 91 

At the ruthless nail of iron 
A little bird is striving there. 

Stained with blood and never tiring, 

With its beak it doth not cease, 
From the cross 't would free the Saviour, 

Its Creator's Son release* 

And the Saviour speaks in mildness : 

" Blest be thou of all the good ! 
Bear, as token of this moment, 

Marks of blood and holy rood ! " 

And that bird is called the crossbill ; 

Covered all with blood so clear, 
In the groves of pine it singeth 

Songs, like legends,, strange to hear. 



AFTERMATH. 1 - 

When the summer fields are mown, 
When the birds are fledged and flown, 

And the dry leaves strew the path ; 
With the falling of the snow, 
With the cawing of the crow, 
Once again the fields we mow 

And gather in the aftermath. 

Not the sweet, new grass with flowers 
Is this harvesting of ours ; 

Not the upland clover bloom ; 

This poem was published just after the poet had completed 



his Tales of a Wayside Inn on his sixty-sixth birthday. 






92 iFTERMATH. 

But the rowen mixed with weeds. 
Tangled tufts from marsh and mead-. 
Where the poppy drops its » 
In the silence and the gloom. 



OCT -4 f94 



€^e !Btt>ei#ine literature ^erieg. 

[A list of the first forty-three numbers is given on the next page,] 

44. Edgeworth's Waste Not, "Want Not, and Barring Out. 

45. Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome. 

46. Old Testament Stories in Scripture Language. From the 

Dispersion at Babel to the Conquest of Canaan. 

47 48. Fables and Folk Stories. Second Reader Grade. 

Phrased by Horace E. Scudder. In two parts.? 
49, 50. Hans Andersen's Stories. Newly Translated. Inira 

Reader Grade. In two parts. % 

51 52 Washington Irving: Essays from the Sketch Book. 

' [51.] Rip Van Winkle and other American Essays. [52.] The Voyage and other 
English Essays. In two parts.* *■*•*■- 

63. Scott's Lady of the Lake. Edited by W. J. Rolfe. With 

copious notes and numerous illustrations. ( Double Number, 30 ctnis. Also, m 
Holfe's Student's Series, cloth, to Teachers, 63 cents.) 

54 Bryant's Sella, Thanatopsis, and Other Poems. 

55* Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice. Edited for School Us* 

bv Samuel Thurber, Master in the Girls' High School, Boston.** 

56. Webster's First Bunker Hill Oration, and the Oration 

on Adams and Jefferson. , ,„, . _ T j t»» i. 

57 Dickens's Christmas Carol. With >.otes and a Biography. 

58. Dickens's Cricket on the Hearth. [Nos. 57 and 58 also in one 

volume, linen covers, 40 cents.~] u 

59. Verse and Prose for Beginners in Reading. Second Reader 

60 61 G The Sir Roger de Coverley Papers. In two parts.* 
62* Fiske's War of Independence. With Maps, and a Biographi- 
cal Sketch. (Double Number, 30 cents ; in linen covers, 40 cents). 

63. Longfellow's Paul Revere's Ride and Other Poems.* 

64, 65, 66 Tales from Shakespeare. Edited by Charles and Mary 

Lamb. In three parts, t 

** Also bound in linen covers. 25 cents. % Also in one volume, linen covers, 40 
cents, t Also in one volume, linen covers. 50 cents. * 11 and 63 also in one 
volume, linen covers, 40 cents. 

EXTRA NUMBERS. 
A American Authors and their Birthdays. Programmes and 

Suezestions for the Celebration of the Birthdays of Authors. By A. S. Roe. 

B Portmiti and Biographical Sketches of Twenty American 

F A Lonrf ellow Night. A Short Sketch of the Poet's Life, with 
C son-fnd rStions g from his works. For the Use of Catholic Schools and 

Catholic Literary Societies. By Katharine A. CTKeeffe. 
n Literature in School ; The Place of Literature in Common School 
^ Educ*t ton? Nursery Classics in School; American Classics in SchooL By 

Horace E. Scudder. , Urt _„__ 

V Warript Beecher Stowe. Dialogues and Scenes. 

V ?SeUow LeafletB. (Each* a Double Number, 30 cents ; linen 
G Wnft ^tier Leaflets. Covers, 40 cents.) Poems and Prose 
IT Holmes Leaflets. Passages for Reading and Recitation. 
T The Riverside Manual for Teachers, containing Suggestions 

and Illustrative Lessons leading up to Primary Reading. By I , £ Ha ^; , . 

K The Riverside Primer and Reader. § (Special Number.) 

In paper covers, with cloth back, 25 cents. In strong linen binding, 30 cents. 
r The Riverside Song Book.S Containing Classic American 
L iL^Jtto s'S^SI. (Do^Number, 30 cents; boards, 40 cents.) 

Jf Lowell's Fable for Critics. With Outline Portraits of Au- 

thors. (Double Number, 30 cents.) 

§ The discount on this book is special. 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY, 
4 Park Street, Boston, Mass. 



€^e BttoersiDe Jltterature Series. 

With Introductions, Notes, Historical Sketches and Biographical sketches. 
Each regular single number in paper covers, 15 cents. 

1. Longfellow's Evangeline. **j 

2. Longfellow's Courtship of Miles Standish ; Elizabeth.** 

3. Longfellow's Courtship of Miles Standish. Dramatizkd. 

4. Whittier's Snow-Bound, Among the Hills, and Songs of 

Labor.** J| 

5. Whittier's Mabel Martin, Cobbler Keezar, Maud Muller, 

and Other Poems. 

6. Holmes's Grandmother s Story of Bunker Hill Battle, etc. 

7. 8, 9. Hawthorne's True Stories from New England His- 

tory. 1620-1803. In three parts.t 

10. Hawthorne's Biographical Stories. 

Sir Isaac Newton, Samuel Johnson, Oliver Cromwell, Benjamin 
Franklin, Queen Christina. With Questions.* 

11. Longfellow's Children's Hour, and other Selections,* 

12. Studies in Longfellow. Containing Thirty-Two 1< for 

Study, with Questions and "Reference Matin ach Topic. 

13,14. Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha. In two j 

15. Lowell's Under the Old Elm, and Other Poems. 

16. Bayard Taylor's Lars ; a Pastoral of Norway. 
17, 18. Hawthorne's Wonder-Book. In two part 

19, 20. Benjamin Franklins Autobiography. In two parts.] 
21. Benjamin Franklin's Poor Richard's Almanac, etc. 
22,23. Hawthorne's Tanglewood Tales. In two j 

24. "Washington's Rules of Conduct. Letters and Addresses.** 

25, 26. Longfellow's Golden Legend, [n two 

27. Thoreau's Succession of Forest Trees, and Wild Apples. 

With a Biographical Sketch by K. W. Kmi ksom. 

28. John Burronghs's Birds and Bees* 

29. Hawthorne's Little Daffydowndilly, and Other Stories .* 

30. Lowell's Vision of Sir Launfal, and Other Pieces. \\ 

31. Holmes's My Hunt after the Captain, and Other Papers. 

32. Abraham Lincoln's Gettysburg Speech, and Other Papers. 
33,34,35. Longfellow s Tales of a Wayside Inn. In three part 

[The three parts also in one volume, tine] ' 

36. John Burroughs's Sharp Eyes, and Other Papers* 

37. Charles Dudley Warner's A-Huntine: of the Deer, etc.** 

38. Longfellow's Building of the Ship, Masque of Pandora, 

and Other Poems. 

39. Lowell's Books and Libraries, and Other Papers. 

40. Hawthorne's Tales of the White Hills, and Sketches. 

41. Whittier's Tent on the Beach. 

42. Emerson's Fortune of the Republic, and Other Essays, 

including The American Scholar. 

43. Ulysses among the Phaeacians. From W. C. Bryant's Trail* 

lation of Homer's Odyssey. 

* 29 and 10 also in one volume, linen covers, 4" 1} 

and 63. 
** Also bound in linen covers. tt. 

t Also in one volume, linen coi oentl. 

t Also in one volume, linen 
tt 1, 4 and 30 also in one volume, Linen 

Continued on the inside of this cover. 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY, 
4 Park Street, Boston, M 










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